The monk screwed up his face, shook his head, and sighed, while the rosy little man looked so droll that the King smiled.
“Look here, Swythe,” he said, “suppose a horde of the savage wretches came up here to plunder my pleasant home, what would you do?”
“Hah!” said the monk. “I am a man of peace, sir; I should run away.”
“And leave the Queen and my boys and me to be killed or taken prisoners?”
“Hah! No,” said the monk. “I couldn’t do that. I’m afraid I should take the biggest staff I could lift—or a sword—or an axe—and—and if either of the wretches tried to touch our good Queen or either of my dear boys I should hit him as hard as ever I could.”
“With the club?” said the King.
“No; I should strike him down with the axe, sir.”
“But you might kill him, Swythe.”
“And if I did, sir,” said the little monk fiercely, “it would be a good thing too; for these Norsemen are wicked pagans, come to kill and slay.”
“You see, we must have fighting-men, Swythe,” said the King; and then he turned to the Queen, who was listening to what they said.